


Wanderlust

by taeminee



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Feeling Dump, M/M, Musing, Pining, Poetry, end of love, florence welch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taeminee/pseuds/taeminee
Summary: It's been a while, but everytime Jeno listens to that song that he recommended, he can feel himself fall apart at the seams.





	Wanderlust

**Author's Note:**

> end of love is such a good song i cry everytime ngl

It was an odd feeling of disconnect.

_I feel nervous in a way that can't be named_

Florence Welch just has one of those voices that makes everything melt, that fills to a deeper sense, a clawing at the surface, desperate to unearth emotions left dormant, to excite and bring with vigour new passion into tired heads. A mystery, unexplainable and unchangeable. Even harder to outline with the pen in his hand. How she does it, her voice alone enough to—

_Even in my dreaming it was a good line for a song_

The brim overflowing with emotion—swirling inside your gut like a force of nature, a windstorm picking upon the hubris and debris in its path. Her voice piercing, sharp, a stark contrast to the ferocity that clung to every note, to every swell, the dips in the yearning melody.

_We're a family pulled from the flood you tore the floorboards up_

Here he was, sitting alone in the dark, furiously trying to transcribe the sigh, the swell that arose in his chest, unbidden. It wasn’t even important—something that was supposed to be derived from pleasure, from the uncontainable itch that stirred beneath his skin, jumping out in burst of, of—he couldn’t even figure the words now.

_We were reaching in the dark_

The prolonged note, the suspire it drew from him, airy and delicate, yet dark and earthy, with roots that dug deeper, and further away, pulling at him, grabbing at the seams. The raindrops that seemed to pierce through his headset echoed in unison, a silent gong that reverberated within his very core, shook him from inside out, leaving him rattled and breathless.

_that summer in New York (wash away)_

A clatter. Jeno turned to see some unsuspecting freshman hurriedly put the book back into the bookshelf where it had fallen from. Panic, distrust, radiates. He closed his eyes, feeling his ribcage taut against his chest, the pounding that he can’t seem to control. He opens and sees the freshman still there, eyeing him cautiously. An odd, underlying part of Jeno wants to beckon them over and let them experience what he is, to feel the chaos that’s brimming right under the surface, threatening to boil over at any second and consume him, an insatiable fire who’s hunger is surmounting.

_And then ghosted me again_

Instead he smiles, a lazy grin. It deglutitions the raw emotion that festers underneath, the ugly and impartial innervation that he hates with a passion yet at the same time mulls and deliberates upon, wishes that he could come to peace with the emotion that stirs at him.

_But it didn't hurt at all_

He lets his hands come up to pull at his hair, lets her wash over, her overwhelming allure derived from whispered promises against vulnerable ears, trapping him under a velvet night of false security. They slide off over his ears, eyes bleary, he can make out the quiet rise of darkening sky from his vantage point. He shouldn’t be thinking about it but it passes his mind, his fault really. The only reason he was introduced to this song in the first place was because of him, for common interest and shared passion. He scoffs to himself, passion now turned into a shameful and hidden mess.

_And was it so far to fall? (wash away)_

He’s reminiscing at this point, letting himself delve into the past, yet knows no good will come for it. Should have done something back then, should have trusted himself against his own guidance, should have believed his friends when they told him so. Maybe it was because he never thought that it would end up like this, had been so securely tucked away by that false sense of security, never imagined that it would crumble away now. Feeling so secure with himself, reeling up the emotion, rehearsing, practising to get it right, to convey the emotion. To convey a year of unspoken emotion, of yearning that could only be so secure after that amount of pondering.

_Said it didn't hurt at all_

Almost a year, almost a year of hope, of promised “This will not happen again” to himself, a year of pining, of pain, of an deep ugly emotion he wrangles with, tries to shove away and forget. Alas, it arises when he least wishes it to, while he’s awaiting a message from him, claws at his throat. His chest closes upon itself, shallow of breath, hands mangled and clenched. He hates this feeling so intensely, something that used to bring him joy, make him quiver with excitement and tangible passion, now an ugly feeling, something unbearable and undignified.

_And let it wash away, wash away_

God how he wishes he had done something, anything more tangible at least forced the courage out like he can now. Ironically, this confirmatory arises because of this, yet nothing of late reminds him of the previous feelings, shallow and insecure compared to the longing he experienced. Deep down he knows he’ll probably move on, eventually feel his heart settle in his ribcage, won’t feel the swell of sadness everytime he sees his name. Eventually.

_You tore the floorboards up_

But. It hurts. A hammer, piercing right through his heart, spinning on its’ axis, the torque of the motion burrowing itself in him, puncturing the air out of his lungs, with every twist, with every text message from him. It’s so red, a scarlet vermillion, pouring out, unstoppable, a hot flame that’s licking at the tender wound that lays exposed before him. It blurs his vision—tears, hot and burning down his face. A fool he is, unable to control his emotions when reminiscing. He really hopes that the freshmen isn’t still there, who stumbled upon a random stranger too caught up in his emotions to realize the world around him is moving on, it too spinning on its’ own axis.

_We were reaching in the dark._

How ironic it is that someone can affect him so much, when he barely leaves a mark on their existence. The guilt, the pain, the regret is consuming, pulling him under it’s dark cloak, suffocating him, a tight grip around his neck, the darkness all around him, helpless. While he remains a fine dust coating, a light shrug of the shoulders to him, something of the past, a faint star in his distant memory.

_Said it didn’t hurt at all_

Her voice is still echoing in the depths of his mind. What started off as a form of creativity, an outlet for this insurmountable emotion has instead trapped him under it, pulsating with vibratos; dulcet harmonies woven into the nuclei of his cells. A manifestation of music with passions that threatened to consume with roaring rhythms in place of a heartbeat.

_And let it wash away, wash away_

One day he’ll be fine.


End file.
